


Paris At Last

by superhoney



Series: Regency Romance [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Kid Fic, M/M, Travel, offscreen minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 05:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16867411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: An unexpected letter sends Dean and Castiel to France in search of the family Castiel thought long lost to him.





	Paris At Last

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the second of the three timestamps I have planned for this 'verse! Sorry this one too so long to appear-- it's been a busy few months, and I went back and forth on a lot of things in this fic, but I'm pretty satisfied with it now and I hope you enjoy it as well.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to Anna, for reading this over for me and for continued enthusiasm for this series.

The letter arrives on a cloudy morning in April. It’s buried beneath a pile of other correspondence, invitations and notes from their friends in town and farther away. Dean smiles up at Alfie as he places the overflowing tray on the breakfast table. “Thank you, Alfie.”

“Of course, my lord.” Alfie gives a brief bow. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Not at present,” Castiel replies. 

With another bow, Alfie vanishes. Dean picks up the first envelope from the pile and tears it open, quickly skimming over the contents. “Another ball at Lady Talbot’s,” he informs Castiel. “Must we attend?”

“You know we must,” Castiel says, though he looks no more pleased than Dean at the thought. “We will make a brief appearance.”

“Very well.” Dean places the invitation on the table to his right, creating a pile for those they plan to accept. He and Castiel work their way slowly through the rest, pausing to read a letter from Sam and Sarah. They’ve been spending the past few weeks in the country with Ellen and Jo, and Dean misses them terribly. 

The next envelope he picks up is thick, the paper smooth beneath his fingers and stained in the upper corner as though it has made a long journey. It is addressed to Castiel, and Castiel only, which is unusual. Though they have not yet made a formal declaration of their union, Dean is generally included in most correspondence sent to the house as a matter of courtesy.

Frowning, he passes the envelope to Castiel. “This one has only your name on it.”

Castiel puts down his cup of tea and takes it from Dean, a matching frown spreading across his face. “Then we ought to punish them for their rudeness in excluding you by not attending whatever they wish to invite me to, I believe.”

His face goes blank as he scans over the letter, and Dean tenses, knowing a mere ball or garden party could not have such an effect on him. “My lord?”

Castiel does not answer, still reading. After a long moment, he puts the letter down and passes a hand over his face. It’s trembling, Dean notices with some dismay. He leaves his seat and crouches down beside Castiel, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Castiel. Please. You’re frightening me.”

Wordlessly, Castiel passes him the letter. Dean takes it, but does not immediately drop his eyes to the page. He watches the way Castiel’s jaw tightens, the way his eyes fix on a point somewhere across the room, and feels a chill of foreboding crawl up his spine. Swallowing roughly, Dean looks down at the letter in his hand and begins to read.

_To Lord Castiel Milton, in the hope that this note finds you in good health,_

_I am writing on behalf of a client of mine, who has been known to most of his neighbours as M. Maurice Pelletier. However, in the strictest of confidences, I have always known him to be, in truth, Lord Michael Milton of London._

Dean draws in a startled breath. He rarely spares a though for Castiel’s long-absent brother, likely because Castiel rarely mentions him. By his calculations, it has been eighteen years since they saw one another. Intrigued, Dean continues to read.

_I regret to inform you that Lord Michael passed away on the fourteenth of March, at home here in Orléans. It is at his instruction that I contact you now on a matter regarding the settling of his final affairs._

“Castiel--” Dean breathes, tightening his grip on his lover’s arm. “Oh, my love, I am so sorry.” To hear nothing of a once-beloved brother for so long, and then to receive word of his death-- Dean came close to such a situation once, but was blessed to find Sam alive after their long separation. 

“Read on.” Castiel’s words are quiet, and he still will not look at Dean. His heart breaking, Dean does as instructed. 

_Lord Michael leaves behind him a sizeable fortune along with the home and property in Orléans. In accordance with the law and with his personal wishes, it will all pass to his only child and heir, his daughter Aliette._

Dean nearly drops the letter in his surprise. Michael had a daughter-- which means Castiel has a niece. A blood relation he never knew existed until this morning. To a man who has long been deprived of a family of blood though rich in one of bond, it must seem a miracle.

_Aliette, however, is but six years of age. Her mother, the late Mme. Pelletier, passed away four years ago, and she is now an orphan, though far from penniless. It was Lord Michael’s last wish that I inform you of her existence, Lord Castiel, and that you act as her guardian until she comes of age and takes possession of her fortune. I urge you to make arrangements for travel as swiftly as possible._

_Yours,_

_Émile Chambord_

“You have a niece,” Dean says. His voice is flat, not with lack of feeling but rather too full of contradictory emotions to allow any one precedence. 

Finally, Castiel turns to face him. His eyes are enormous in his pale, drawn face. “We must go to her at once.”

Inwardly, Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He did not want to presume he would be included in the plans, considering he is of no official connection to the girl. The solicitor did not address the letter to him in addition to Castiel, after all. But Castiel will need him, he knows, and in his heart Dean already feels an overwhelming tenderness for this child he has never met, this child who has already lost both parents at such a young age. 

“I’ll have Alfie begin packing,” Dean says. He squeezes Castiel’s arm, for comfort, and rises to his feet. “You set about making the arrangements for our crossing to France.”

Castiel still looks somewhat dazed, but he nods, his eyes clearing as he stands. He catches Dean by the waist and pulls him close, Dean’s arms coming up instinctively to wrap around him. Castiel draws in a shuddering breath and rests his head against Dean’s shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to his dark hair and holds him close. It’s unusual, for him to be the one giving comfort. Castiel is almost always the protector, the one who supports Dean in his frequent times of need. But Dean can be strong for him, can provide a safe harbour from the storm of his shock and grief at this trying time.

They have weathered more than their fair share of trials and tribulations over the four years they have known one another. Dean has no doubt that they will come through this latest test unscathed, though not unchanged. After all, it will no longer be only the two of them. There is a child to consider now, and she must be their first priority.

***

Dean cannot say that he particularly enjoys his first crossing of the Channel.

They are blessed with relatively calm waters, the captain informs him. But his stomach roils with every rocking motion of the ship, and the open expanse of water makes him feel small and fragile in a way he has not experienced in a long time. He would remain below if he could, but Castiel has planted himself at the railing, watching as the coast of England disappears behind them, and Dean joins him there, his company the only comfort he can provide.

The air is chilly, and Castiel’s dark hair is ruffled by the breeze off the water. He looks stern and proud and unyielding, like a figurehead on a warship. But Dean can read his grief in the lines around his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, in the very stillness of his posture. He longs to wrap him in his arms once more, to whisper words of love and commiseration, but something holds him back, keeps him waiting until Castiel turns to him.

It isn’t until they can no longer see the shoreline that Castiel speaks. “I wish I had gotten the chance to say goodbye.”

Dean takes a step closer, still not touching him, but near enough that he could reach out and do so in an instant. “He was thinking of you, at the end,” he says softly. “He entrusted his daughter to your care. He must have known you would do right by her.”

Castiel turns to look at him, his face anguished. “I know nothing about raising a child, Dean. And one who has already loved and lost her true parents-- how can I possibly take her father’s place?”

“You can’t.” Dean swallows heavily, remembering his own father’s passing and the emptiness it left behind in his heart despite their troubled relationship. “No one can. But you can love her to the best of your ability, you can keep her safe and protected until she comes of age. That is what Michael has trusted you to do, and I know you will do it well.”

Facing him fully, Castiel searches Dean’s face with that particular intensity of his. “I will?” he repeats. “Or we will?”

Dean shrugs as though he has not been wondering the exact same thing. 

“I know we never discussed it,” Castiel continues. His voice has turned hesitant, and he once again refuses to meet Dean’s eyes. “Having children, I mean. I cannot ask you to adapt so suddenly to these new circumstances, Dean. If this should mean a change to our relationship--” he trails off, swallowing roughly. “I will respect whatever decision you feel you must make.”

As though Dean could ever leave him, and over this matter. He almost laughs at the thought, but he knows that despite the strength of their bond, Castiel’s old insecurities still plague him from time to time. Now is the time for honesty on Dean’s part, and nothing less.

Taking a deep breath, he says, “I have always wanted to be a father.” For so long, he thought he would never have the security and stability to provide for a child, or the necessary partner to bear a child of his blood. But he cannot deny that he has dreamed of raising children with Castiel, loving them fiercely no matter their parentage. “My heart is heavy with sadness at the circumstances, my love, but knowing that there is a child on the other side of this dreadful stretch of water, one we might raise and love together, fills it with a joy I have never before felt.”

A tentative hope blossoms in Castiel’s eyes. “Then you will stay with me? With us?”

Finally, Dean reaches out and lays a hand on his cheek. It is cold from the brisk wind, but soft under Dean’s touch. “Yes,” he vows. “We may never replace your brother and his late wife, but we will be parents to your niece in every way we can. Together.”

Castiel closes his eyes and leans into the touch. A slow tear trickles its way down his cheek, and Dean brushes it away with his thumb, crossing the distance between them to kiss him softly. 

“I am so frightened,” Castiel admits. “Two days ago, I did not even know of her existence. And now I already love her so much, it terrifies me.”

“I feel much the same way.” Dean gives him a rueful smile. “Shall we be frightened together?”

“Yes.” Castiel sighs and wraps Dean in his arms, turning to face the open water once more. “I am grateful for you every day, Dean, but never more so than I am now.”

Dean sighs softly and rests his head against Castiel’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his warm coat. Soon the coast of France will appear before them, and the road that will take them to meet their new ward. “Aliette,” Dean says quietly. “It is a beautiful name.”

“It is,” Castiel agrees.

They stand in silence after that, watching as the water gives way before the ship, carrying them closer and closer to the newest member of their family.

***

The overland journey to Orléans is long, and by the time they reach the city, Dean is exhausted. Only his nervous anticipation keeps his eyes open as their horses clatter noisily down the streets, scanning for the address given to them by Michael’s solicitor.

The house is at the end of a quiet, respectable-looking street. A lamp burns in the window downstairs, indicating that its inhabitants are expecting their arrival. Castiel swings down from his horse and Dean follows with slightly less grace as their hired guide knocks sharply on the solid front door. 

It swings open, revealing a thin, rather pinched-looking man, who gives them a considering look before making a brief bow. “Lord Milton?” he asks, his English accented but clear. “You have the look of your late brother. Allow me to offer my condolences once more.”

“Monsieur Chambord.” Castiel inclines his head slightly. “Thank you for your graciousness, and for meeting us here. May I introduce my--” there’s the slightest hesitation-- “companion, Dean Winchester?”

Dean and the solicitor exchange polite nods. 

“Come in, come in,” Chambord says, ushering them into the house. “How was your journey from London?”

“Long,” Dean supplies, “but worthwhile.”

Chambord’s eyes flick over to him, clearly surprised to hear him answer rather than Castiel. Dean meets his gaze steadily. He knows what he is to Castiel, and what he will be to Aliette. He cares not at all what this man thinks of it, or of him.

“The child is already in bed, of course,” Chambord explains as he leads them further into the house. “I thought we might discuss some matters of business tonight, and you may meet her in the morning. We’ve had the best guest chamber prepared for you.”

“That sounds agreeable.” Castiel nods politely. “Thank you once again for all your efforts.”

Chambord shrugs, and for a moment, a flicker of pain crosses his face. “It was your brother’s last wish, that you should come here and look after his child. He was a good friend to me.”

Castiel does not reply, but even in the low light, Dean can see the shadows appearing behind his eyes once more. It is not difficult to guess what he is thinking: that he should have been here long before this, that he should have had some contact with Michael, that he should have known of Aliette’s existence. Dean rests his hand gently at the small of Castiel’s back and guides him forward, knowing this is not the time to discuss such matters. 

They enter a handsome study at the back of the house, where three chairs have been carefully placed around the desk at equal distance from one another. Dean appreciates the thoughtfulness of that, if nothing else. He takes the chair closest to the door and Castiel sits beside him, hands folded neatly on his lap.

Chambord rifles through some papers on the desk and pulls out a long, official-looking letter. “Here you are, my lord. Monsieur Pelletier-- or should I say, Lord Michael’s, will.”

Castiel takes the will and reads over it in silence, then passes it across to Dean. It says nothing they have not already heard: that Aliette has been entrusted to Castiel’s care until she reaches adulthood, that this house and all of Michael’s fortune will be hers on that day. It all seems so much more real, seeing it set down in ink. 

“He makes no mention of his wishes concerning Aliette’s upbringing,” Castiel says quietly. “If she ought to be raised here, the only home she has ever known, or come back to London with us.”

Chambord shrugs. “I believe he trusted you to make the best decision for you both.” He hesitates for a moment, looking away. “He spoke of you often, Lord Castiel. I believe it was truly one of the great regrets of his life, not being in contact with you, but he was a proud man, for all his many admirable qualities.”

Castiel swallows roughly, looking down at the will once more. He clears his throat, his voice strained when he speaks again. “And should we choose to return to London, what will become of the house and the servants?”

“They will be maintained in your absence,” Chambord replies, looking relieved to have a more practical matter to discuss. “And as she grows older, the young lady may wish to return here for a visit on occasion.”

“Of course.” Castiel pushes a hand through his hair, and Dean aches to reach out and take hold of it, to offer him what support he can, but remains still. “Very well. Is there anything else you wish to discuss before we retire?”

Chambord taps the surface of the desk with the fingers of one hand, then nods. “It is a rather indelicate matter, but I fear we must raise it: have you a will of your own, my lord?”

“Yes.” Castiel stiffens in his seat. “It is a necessary consideration for any gentleman.”

“But, of course, it would make no mention of Aliette.”

Dean interrupts before he can stop himself. “You must make provisions for her care should anything happen to you, my lord.”

“Precisely.” Chambord gives Dean an approving nod. 

Castiel just looks blankly at them both. “Well, she will have you, of course, Dean.”

They had agreed to raise Aliette together during their discussion on the ship, but to hear him state it as a matter of fact--

“I have nothing to offer her,” Dean says flatly. “I am as dependent on you as she will be, my lord.”

Castiel frowns at him. “Naturally, all that is mine would pass to you as well, Dean.”

“Naturally?” Dean repeats, incredulous. “My lord, there is nothing _natural_ about this.”

Chambord delicately clears his throat and rises to his feet. “I believe this is a matter I need not be present to discuss. I will see you in the morning, gentlemen.”

Castiel gives him the briefest of nods before returning his attention fully to Dean. “Surely this can come as no surprise? I thought it was clear, particularly in light of our conversation regarding our shared commitment to Aliette.”

“Yes, that.” Dean waves a dismissive hand in the air. “But to speak of leaving everything to me should--” he chokes at the thought, but forces the words out regardless-- “should anything happen to you.”

“Do you want me to leave you with nothing?” Castiel asks, throwing up his hands. “Dean, I swear, at times I do not understand you at all.”

“Understand me?” Dean laughs harshly. “I do not understand you, my lord. You speak of leaving everything, including the care of your _niece_ , to me, as though I were your sworn spouse, and yet in four years together, you have never suggested we marry!”

Castiel’s eyes go wide, but Dean has not finished. Now that the matter has been raised, he cannot keep silent all the thoughts that have been plaguing him since their discussion on the ship.

“You ask me to commit to you, to a child neither of us has ever met, and I will do so gladly,” he continues. “It is what I have always wanted, to be with you and to raise a family. You offer me all the status, all the responsibilities, all the shared joy and struggle of a wedded partner, and yet you will not offer me the name of husband.” His voice breaks on that last word, and as he raises his eyes to meet Castiel’s, he fights to keep his face composed. “Why?

Instead of answering, Castiel looks away. “You know how I feel about marriage.”

“I do,” Dean answers, voice shaking. Those words-- two simple words he wishes so desperately to say in a far different context. “Transactional, you called it, if I recall correctly. Did it never occur to you that I know a great deal about _transactions_ , my lord?”

At that, Castiel’s face goes white. “Dean--”

“Enough to know when the term is a simplification-- no, worse, an insult-- to what is shared between its participants.” Dean is surprised at the anger in his voice, anger directed both at Castiel for his failure to understand and at himself for not pushing further on this matter the year before, when they discussed it in light of Sam and Sarah’s wedding. 

“I told you I would wed you gladly, if that was what you needed.” Obviously, Castiel has been replaying the same conversation in his own mind. “And you told me you did not. I thought the matter settled.” He straightens up to his full height, shoulders square and head held proudly high. “And now you-- what, bargain with me? Is a wedding ring the cost of your continued presence in my life, Dean? Your future presence in Aliette’s? Perhaps it is a transaction after all.”

Dean exhales slowly. He will not dignify such a question with a response. Instead, he makes Castiel a low bow, turns on his heel, and leaves the room.

He finds his way to the guest quarters upstairs with little trouble. It is clear which room has been set aside for he and Castiel, and though he considers sleeping elsewhere, he refuses to allow Castiel the satisfaction of being proven correct. His continued presence, as Castiel put it, is not dependent on anything but his own will. And for now, he desires to stay.

The bed is comfortable, the linens crisp and clean, but Dean tosses and turns without Castiel there beside him. Hours pass before he hears the creak of the stairs and the door opens, the familiar sound of Castiel’s footsteps coming closer as he crosses the room. A minute later, the bed dips as Castiel climbs in beside him. Dean keeps his eyes tightly closed, feigning sleep, and says nothing.

He feels Castiel reach out, but no touch lands on his face or body. He hears Castiel sigh, and then turn over. Heart racing, Dean wills himself to sleep. They’re both exhausted from their journey and from the stress of their circumstances, and he prays that the morning will shed kinder light on the words exchanged this night.

***

Dean wakes to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, light and fast. Beside him, Castiel is still asleep, dark hair messy against the stark white of the pillow. The lines around his eyes have not smoothed away in repose, and Dean aches to trace them with a fingertip, to wake him with soft touches and words of remorse, but before he can reach out, the door creaks open.

A small figure hovers in the entryway, dark hair neatly plaited around a pale face and enormous eyes. Dean sits up in bed and offers her a tentative smile. “Aliette, I presume?”

She says nothing, but moves closer, eyes fixed on his face. When she is only a few steps away, she ducks her head and says something, her voice muffled but clear enough for Dean to realize she is speaking in French. Of course.

Finally, Castiel stirs. He raises his head and draws in a startled breath at the sight of Aliette, then swings himself out of bed and approaches her slowly. She watches with a slight frown on her face, then says something else Dean cannot understand. 

“Yes,” Castiel answers in a tone Dean has never heard from him before. “ _Oui, ma petite. Votre oncle, Castiel._ ”

A shy smile crosses her face as she dips a graceful curtsey, a strange motion for one so small. It brings an answering smile to Castiel’s face, and he makes her an elegant bow, which sets her to giggling. Dean’s chest feels likely to overflow with the sentiment that sound provokes, and he smiles at them both, wishing he knew how to speak to her in her own language.

Castiel glances over his shoulder, his eyes wary, and Dean gives him a brief shake of his head. Their disagreement must be put aside for the moment. Aliette is their first priority now. Castiel nods almost imperceptibly, then leans in closer and murmurs something to her, sweeping a hand back towards the bed to indicate Dean. An introduction, if he had to guess.

Dean crouches down on the floor beside them and gravely offers his hand to Aliette. She looks to Castiel for reassurance, and at his gentle smile, she places her tiny hand in Dean’s. “ _Bonjour, mademoiselle_ ,” he says, which is very near to the extent of his knowledge of French. “I am so happy to make your acquaintance.”

Castiel translates for him, and adds something of his own, judging by the length of his speech. Aliette gives Dean a small smile, and with that one tiny gesture, lodges herself permanently in his heart. He looks up at Castiel over her head and sees a matching expression of overwhelming tenderness on his face and swallows roughly to hold back his tears.

The door opens and a harried maid rushes in, saying something in rapid French that Dean is nevertheless easily able to interpret as scolding. Aliette hangs her head, looking chagrined, but Castiel holds up a hand and says something to the maid, who bobs a curtsey and nods in response to his words.

“Apologies, monsieur,” she says. She gives Aliette a look of exasperation softened by genuine fondness. “She has talked of little else but her uncle’s arrival for days now, and she has been indulged since--” she hesitates, giving a brief shake of her head. “Well. No matter. Come, Aliette.” She switches effortlessly back to French, and Aliette reaches up to take her hand and allow herself to be led from the room, though she pauses at the door to give a small wave to Dean and Castiel.

They both return the gesture, and when the door closes, Dean turns to Castiel and holds up a hand to halt his speech. “Later,” he insists. “Whatever we have to say to one another, it can wait.”

He is not so naive as to think that all their problems have fallen away in face of meeting their new ward. Such foolishness would be unfair to them both, and particularly so to Aliette. But for now, they will present a united front, providing the sort of stability she has been lacking since her father’s death. 

Castiel swallows roughly. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, “but one thing I must say now.” He looks at Dean, those bright blue eyes intent on his face. “I love you.”

Though he has never truly doubted it, it does Dean a world of good to hear the words in light of their harsh conversation the night before. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “I love you as well.”

He opens his eyes and moves to the wardrobe to begin selecting his clothing for the day. As Castiel draws near to do the same, the back of his hand brushes lightly against Dean’s arm: a caress, a greeting, an apology. Dean allows the touch, though he does not return it, too busy pulling a fresh shirt over his head.

Once properly attired, they descend the stairs to the parlour, where an impressive spread has been laid before them. Aliette is seated at the far end of the table, between her maid and M. Chambord, with whom she is engaged in a quiet conversation. Her eyes dart immediately to Dean and Castiel as they enter the room, but her earlier smile has vanished, replaced with flushed cheeks and a lowered gaze.

Castiel glances at Dean, his confusion evident in his eyes. Dean offers his most reassuring smile and takes the seat across from Aliette, gesturing to Castiel to join him. He gives Aliette a brief though not uncordial nod, but then engages Castiel in conversation, remarking on the handsomeness of the house despite its relatively small size. The frown lingers on Castiel’s face, though he answers readily enough and provides his own commentary on the lovely view from the windows upstairs.

After several minutes of this, Aliette leans forward, plants her elbows on the table in a movement that makes her maid sigh in dismay, and says, “My rooms look out onto the gardens.”

Dean turns his head sharply towards her. He had hoped to coax her into conversation with Castiel, at least, to bring back some of the curiosity and enthusiasm she had displayed earlier in the morning. But he had never expected to hear her speak in a language he could understand.

Castiel appears to be equally surprised. “Your English is very good,” he says, giving her a pleased smile.

She sits up straighter under his praise, a smile breaking out across her face once more. “Papa always said--” she falters, shoulders drooping. 

Chambord grimaces and places a gentle hand on her shoulder, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. “M. Pelletier insisted it was important his daughter learn his own language. I believe he had the intention of taking her to visit England at one point.”

“Ah.” Castiel inclines his head gravely, but there is a pained expression in his eyes that likely only Dean can see. “Well, mademoiselle, I believe Mr. Winchester will be happy to converse with you, now that he knows how clever you are to speak our language.”

Dean leans across the table and winks at Aliette. “And perhaps you will be kind enough to teach me some of your own.”

She laughs, a merry sound that brings soft smiles to the faces of all the adults around her. “ _Bien sur, monsieur_ ,” she answers. “And my uncle will help us, _n’est ce pas_?”

Castiel nods at her, and they’re soon involved in a lesson, Aliette pointing out all the objects in the room and slowly giving Dean their names in French. Castiel does help when she occasionally stumbles on an explanation in English, and between the three of them, they expand Dean’s vocabulary significantly over the course of their breakfast. 

Once they have finished eating, the maid gently clears her throat and gives Aliette a pointed look. “It is time for your own lessons, mademoiselle. Say your farewells to the gentlemen for now.”

A pout crosses her features, reminding Dean how very young she is despite her tremendous poise and cleverness. “Must we have lessons today?”

Dean and Castiel exchange glances, and Dean gives a knowing wink. “Yes, you must,” he says. “So that you can teach me everything that you learn.”

She mulls it over, an expression of deep pensiveness on her face, then gives a decisive nod. “Very well.” She holds out her hand to the maid. “ _Allons-y, Sidonie_.”

“Make your curtsey,” Sidonie reminds her in a low voice.

“No need to stand on such ceremony,” Castiel says, lowering himself into a crouch before Aliette. “We will see you soon, _ma petite_.”

Dean joins them and extends his hand for Aliette to shake. “ _Merci, mademoiselle_. For the lesson.”

She accepts it with the graciousness of a lady born and raised, then dutifully follows Sidonie out of the room, throwing one longing look over her shoulder as she does.

“She is remarkably well-adjusted, considering her recent loss,” Castiel comments.

Chambord sighs and drains the last of his tea. “Some days are better than others. I believe the excitement of your arrival has overshadowed her grief, but I have no doubt it will re-emerge in time. She is a dear child, and a clever one, but she is still a child, and she has lost both parents at such a young age.”

“She seems fond of this house, and of the staff,” Dean says, turning to look at him. “In your opinion, would it be best for her to remain here? At least for a little while?”

Chambord spreads his hand before him in a helpless gesture. “I have no children of my own. I do not pretend to understand them well. But Mademoiselle Aliette has long been indulged by her parents and the staff, and I believe she will make her own wishes known, should you give her the chance to express them.”

Castiel nods thoughtfully. “If there are no other matters of business to discuss at the moment, Monsieur, I believe Dean and I will take a short walk.”

“Yes, a fine idea.” Chambord makes a brief bow to Castiel and gives Dean a polite nod. “Enjoy the sunshine.”

They leave the house in silence, and it isn’t until they’re several steps down the street that Castiel speaks. “I gave grave insult last night, both to your person and to the genuine bond of love and respect between us. I beg your pardon for what was, in truth, an unpardonable speech.”

Dean lets the words wash over him, breathing deeply. The air is fresh and carries just a hint of a chill, slowly being leeched away by the warmth of the sun. It is the apology he has longed for, and yet--

“Must you always mask your feelings behind such stiff civility?” he asks wearily. “Your words are beautiful, my lord, but sometimes I cannot determine the depth of meaning behind such phrases.”

Beside him, he feels Castiel stiffen even as they continue to walk. “I cannot help the circumstances of my upbringing any more than you can yours,” he says. “I am not masking my feelings, Dean, regardless of the way in which I express them.”

They have reached a small square, a charming fountain splashing merrily in its centre with benches arranged around it. Fortunately, no one else is occupying the space. Dean drops heavily onto the nearest bench, Castiel perching lightly beside him, the physical space he leaves between them a stark reminder of their situation.

“I do not believe you,” Dean says. He does not look at Castiel. “Perhaps not in this instant, but you have not been entirely honest with me, my lord.” He takes a deep breath, knowing there will be no going back after this conversation. “You maintain that it is marriage itself that is displeasing to you, but when we first met, you announced your intention of courting me. It was not until later, after we had established the relationship we enjoy now, that you made your claim of marriage being nothing more than a transaction.”

He turns to look at Castiel, whose face has gone pale, his breathing laboured. “Did you come to realize you could have me without the trappings of ceremony? Without having to make a full commitment, so you might always have an escape route? Or were you still caught in the circumstances of your upbringing, as you called them, and secretly relieved that you found a way to keep me without sullying the noble Milton name on a man like me?”

Castiel lets out a deep, shaking breath. He swallows once, then says, “I am most deeply sorry, my love.” He shakes his head briefly. “Is that what you think of me-- no, what you think of yourself? Still?”

Dean shrugs, uneasy. He has wondered, over the years. Has wondered if the fault was with him, or rather with his earlier life. If Castiel could only love him so much, enough to keep him close but not enough to declare that love to the entire world.

“If I have ever given you any cause to think such a thing, it is the gravest sin I have ever committed.” Castiel carefully reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, and it is only the contrast with his warm skin that makes Dean realize how cold his own hands are. “Forgive me for not realizing how our understandings of the meaning of a marriage could be so different. It is the stability you seek, I see that now. Not the social status, not the wealth, not even the golden ring itself.”

Dean nods. “You would give me all those things regardless. In fact, you have, or have promised to do so.”

The slightest frown crosses Castiel’s face. “My words are not enough? When I tell you that I love you, and that I wish never to be parted from you, and that everything I have is yours and yet that I would gladly give it all up if it meant you staying with me?” His lip twitches in a grin despite the solemnity of the discussion. “Surely by now you must know how important a gentleman’s word of honour is.”

“I do,” Dean agrees. He makes a helpless gesture with his free hand. “And every part of me yearns to believe you, Castiel. But--” he swallows roughly, hating to speak of such things, even now. “I have been made promises before. I have been told how loved I was, how precious, just before--” he trails off, and he sees by the look on Castiel’s face that he understands perfectly. “I’m afraid words are too easily swept aside for me to take true comfort in them.”

Castiel raises Dean’s hand and presses it to his cheek. “I understand,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me why this matters so much to you. It is words made into action that you desire, yes?”

Dean closes his eyes and nods. He asks so much of Castiel, and always has. And this beautiful, generous, incredible man never fails to meet his demands and make him feel as though he is worth granting them to. “Promises made real,” he adds. 

“I understand,” Castiel repeats. He is still holding Dean’s hand, and when he shifts slightly on the bench, for a brief, soaring moment, Dean thinks he is about to drop to one knee and propose there and then. But instead, he just slides closer he can wrap his arm about Dean’s shoulders, holding him tightly.

Dean is not disappointed. To have Castiel ask for his hand in marriage now would feel like exactly the kind of transaction he is so set against. But when Castiel presses a kiss to the top of his head and says, “I love you, Dean. And I promise you, those words will be transformed into action,” Dean raises his face to be kissed.

It feels like exactly the sort of declaration he has been in need of. Yes, he thinks, they understand one another perfectly.

***

By the time they return to the house, hand-in-hand, Aliette has finished her lessons and is waiting rather impatiently for them in the parlour. A tremulous smile crosses her face as they enter the room, and she makes a shaky curtsy and says something to Castiel in French. Dean glances between the two of them, watching the way Castiel’s face visibly changes at her words, a stricken look entering his eyes. 

“ _Non, ma petite_ ,” he tells her. “ _Nous sommes encore ici. Nous ne partirons jamais sans toi_.” 

She nods, giving Dean a questioning look. Over her head, Castiel mouths, “She thought we left.”

The poor child. Dean understands that fear all too well. He drops to his knees in front of Aliette and opens his arms to her, knowing gestures can speak just as loudly as words, if not more so. She does not hesitate before throwing herself into his embrace, pressing her face against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We should have told you we were going for a walk.”

“You came back,” she says, words muffled.

“Yes, we did.” Castiel crouches down to join them, and she pulls away from Dean enough to look at him. “I cannot promise you that we always will, my dear. I cannot say what life holds for any of us. But we will never leave you voluntarily.”

She nods solemnly, holding out a hand to each of them. They both shake gravely, and finally, her face clears. “Are we leaving for London today?”

Startled, Dean raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you wish to go to London?”

She nods again. “Yes. What else have I been practicing _en Anglais_ for?”

“She does make a convincing argument,” Castiel murmurs. “That is what you want, Aliette? You want to come to live with us in London?”

Aliette nods again, then bites her lower lip. “I will miss my friends here, but you will help me write to them?”

“Of course,” Dean assures her. “And you know, we can always come back to visit if you find yourself missing them a great deal.”

Her eyes go wide, and she claps her hands together in delight. “Oh, yes, please!”

“Then it is settled.” Castiel lays a soft hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps you should begin to think about what you will wish to pack.”

“I will ask Sidonie,” Aliette declares. “Sidonie always knows what to do.” Suddenly, she makes a small sound of dismay. “Can Sidonie come with us to London too?”

It would likely be the wisest course of action. Though they are already fond of her, neither Dean nor Castiel has a great deal of experience with children, and it would be good for Aliette to have some stability in this difficult time. But they cannot simply expect the young woman to entirely uproot her life and move so far away from her home. 

“We will ask her,” Castiel says gently. “If she wishes to come with us, she will be most welcome.” 

“I will ask right now!” Before Dean or Castiel can stop her, she dashes off towards the stairs, her tiny feet barely making any sound despite her rapid pace.

Dean watches her go, a smile creeping across his face. “I begin to sense that our settled, placid days are behind us, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Castiel shakes his head in amusement. Then his expression turns thoughtful. “I had an idea.”

“Oh?” Dean raises an eyebrow at him. “What sort of idea?”

“Perhaps we should take our time on the journey home. Allow ourselves to enjoy it.” Castiel grins, the expression making him look as young as he did when Dean first met him. “We still owe Balthazar a visit to Paris, and if he hears we have been in France and not paid him a call, he will never speak to us again.”

Dean laughs, though he knows Castiel speaks the truth. And they always have intended to visit Paris, and simply never found the time. “We are already here…”

“Exactly.” Castiel smiles at him, then sobers quickly. “And I believe it would be good for Aliette, to create some happy memories at this time.”

“Yes.” Dean nods his agreement. “It is an excellent idea.”

Before he can add anything further, Aliette comes dashing back into the room, her eyes alight with happiness. “Sidonie will come to London with us!” she announces.

Dean and Castiel exchange relieved smiles. “It is settled, then,” Castiel says. “Pack your bags, _ma petite_ , for we are off on an adventure.”

***

It takes several days to make all the preparations for their trip back to London. Unlike the journey here, there is no urgency to it, so they do not rush. Castiel writes a letter to Balthazar to inform them of their plans and sends it off with a smile on his face, the smile of pure happiness Dean loves to see.

When everything is packed and the horses and carriage have been hired, there remains only one last thing to do before they set out.

Aliette’s parents are buried in the yard of the largest church in Orléans. She sits quietly in the carriage as they make the short drive through the town, her usually animated face grave and still. In these more serious moments, Dean sees a resemblance to Castiel that does not normally make itself apparent.

When they dismount in front of the church, she reaches up and takes hold of Dean’s hand without prompting. His throat tight, he gently guides her towards the cluster of headstones at the back of the church, Castiel following behind them.

It is not hard to locate the graves of Isabelle and Maurice Pelletier, the former more weathered by the elements than the latter. Aliette clutches tightly to Dean’s hand and reaches out with her other to trace over her mother’s name. 

“I lost my mother when I was very young as well,” Dean says quietly. “You must miss her very much.”

“I do not remember her well,” Aliette answers. “But Papa would tell me stories about her. He said she was the most beautiful lady in all of France.”

“They must have loved each other very much.” Castiel crouches down in front of the headstone that bears a name not truly his brother’s, laying a careful hand on it. “Would you like to hear a story about your papa when he was a boy?”

Aliette nods fiercely, and both she and Dean sit on the grass, heedless of the state of their clothing. 

“Your papa was five years older than me,” Castiel begins. “When we were very young, he had little interest in a brother so much smaller, who could not play the same games as him.” Dean notices that he makes no mention of Lucien-- perhaps because he does not wish to burden Aliette with that story, or perhaps because it is too difficult for him to speak of, even now. “But one day, I had been chasing after him as he went out riding, I forgot to lock the gate on the stables, and one of the horses got loose. My father was angry, and when he demanded an explanation, Michael told him it was his fault, that he had been careless. My father was angry with him instead of with me, and when I asked him about it later, he told me it was his responsibility to look out for me, since I was so much younger than him.”

Dean aches to reach out and offer comfort, but Castiel’s hand are tightly clenched in front of him, so he settles for wrapping an arm around his shoulders instead. Aliette looks up at Castiel, a serious expression on her face. “He was a good brother?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies softly. “He was.”

He makes no mention of the long estrangement between them, of the way Michael left him behind after the deaths of their father and Lucien. Whatever his own feelings on the matter, it is too late to soothe those old hurts. But Aliette’s grief is more recent, more raw, and if Castiel’s happier memories can be a balm to it, Dean knows he will provide them endlessly. 

“He was a good papa too,” she says. She sniffles, and Dean reaches out his other arm instinctively, gathering her close. She curls herself against his chest, her tears spilling onto his shirt. Dean’s heart breaks for the two of them, his wordless support the only thing he has to offer at this time. 

After several minutes, Castiel gently disentangles himself from Dean’s hold. “We should be on our way.” He smooths Aliette’s hair away from her face with a light hand. “Come, Aliette.”

She sniffles once more, scrubbing the back of her hand across her face, and gives a little nod. Then she places one hand on each of her parents’ headstones and says, “ _Au revoir, Maman. Au revoir, Papa_.”

Then she takes one of Dean’s hands and one of Castiel’s and allows herself to be led back to the carriage, casting only one longing glance back over her shoulder as they leave.

***

Balthazar’s home in Paris is, predictably, large and imposing, though more restrained in style than Dean might have expected. The moment their carriage rolls to a halt, a smartly-dressed footman descends the steps and opens the door, making them a low bow as he does. “ _Bonjour, messieurs. Bonjour, mademoiselle_.”

They return his greeting politely, and he gallantly hands Aliette down from the carriage, making her giggle at such fine treatment. She takes Castiel’s hand as they climb the steps, and before they have even reached the top, Balthazar emerges to greet them with arms thrown wide in welcome. 

“Castiel, you rogue!” he exclaims. “I have been inviting you to visit me for years, and when you finally do, you give me only a few days’ notice. Is this how you treat your oldest friend?”

He drops down to a crouch so he is level with Aliette and leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “Your uncle is the cause of any grey hairs you might see on my head, mademoiselle.”

She giggles at that and carefully checks through his hair. “I see no grey, monsieur.”

“You are most kind,” Balthazar tells her. “Welcome to my home, my dear.”

Aliette gives him a very pretty curtsey. “Thank you for inviting us.”

Balthazar gives Dean and Castiel a wry look over the top of her head. “I’m not entirely sure that is how I would describe it, but it is my pleasure to have you here regardless.” He gravely extends his hand to her, and she takes it with studied dignity. He tosses a wink back over his shoulder and leads her into the house.

“It is so good to see you,” he says as the footman opens the door to the sitting room. “It has been too long, my friends.”

“You could have returned to London to see us again,” Castiel points out.

Balthazar waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Yes, I could have. But now you are here, and you have brought such a delightful surprise of a companion with you.” Aliette has settled herself onto a low chair, looking around the room with interest, and Balthazar directs a fond smile in her direction. “Have you been to Paris before, mademoiselle?”

She shakes her head. “ _Non, malheureusement. Papa--_ Papa preferred to stay at home.”

Castiel’s hand clenches and unclenches, an unconscious display of emotion, and Dean reaches out to take hold of it. “Then it will be new for all of us,” he says to Aliette. “Are you certain you are prepared to play both host and tour guide to three newcomers who will likely be awestruck at the sights and sounds of your beautiful city?”

Balthazar laughs and adjusts the sleeves of his coat with an air of faux-offense. “I have spent every waking hour since your letter arrived planning how best to do just that,” he informs them. “So, as soon as you are refreshed and ready, we may finally begin.”

True to his word, Balthazar has planned their day down to the last minute. He seems to know every person they pass in the street, as well as all the staff in the shops and cafes they visit. He has a charming smile for each and every one of them, and Dean flushes to remember how suspicious he had originally been of that charm, how rude he had been to Balthazar during the early days of their acquaintance. Catching his mood, Castiel gives him a wry smile as Balthazar introduces Aliette to yet another fashionably dressed lady, who coos down at her and says something in French too rapidly for Dean to decipher it. 

Many of those same ladies, as well as no small number of gentlemen, glance appreciatively at Dean and Castiel as they are introduced as well. After the third such frank glance, Dean slides his hand into Castiel’s as they walk, watching as the admiration in the strangers’ eyes turns to wistfulness instead. Castiel casts a fond look at him over his shoulder and leans close to murmur, “Making a point without words, are we?”

“Yes,” Dean replies, not deeming the question worth a lie in response. “Indeed, I think it is a kindness. They may look all they like, but there is no sense in hoping. You are already spoken for.”

“It is not only me they are looking at.” Castiel takes this opportunity to allow his own eyes to travel slowly down Dean’s body, clothed in borrowed finery from Balthazar’s vast wardrobe. “You do look rather splendid, you know.”

Before Dean can reply, Aliette skips back to join them, her eyes dancing. “Do I also look splendid, Uncle?”

Castiel laughs and swings her up onto his shoulders in an easy movement, bringing a fond smile to Dean’s face. “You most certainly do, _ma petite_. Why do you think all these lords and ladies are stopping to greet us? They wish to be introduced to the most fashionable young lady in Paris.”

Aliette laughs, reaching down to pat Castiel’s cheek. “You are silly, Uncle. Many of the ladies are far more fashionable. Why, look at that hat!” She points to an older gentlewoman, whose towering hat is indeed a sight to see, bedecked with plumes and ribbons and gems. Dean smothers a smile at the excess of it all, catching a wink from Balthazar as he does.

“Would you like a hat like that, _chérie_?”

Aliette gives the matter serious consideration, then shakes her head firmly. “No,” she says. “I think it would make my neck hurt.”

By the end of the day, it is not their necks that are sore, but their feet. They have explored a great deal of Paris, and while Dean has been suitably impressed by what he has seen, he cannot deny that he is happy to return to Balthazar’s comfortable house to dine and rest. Supper is a casual affair, and the food is as wonderful as Dean has always been promised French cuisine can be. And the wine-- Dean has never had much of a taste for it before, but now he begins to understand why it is such a popular beverage.

After they finish eating, it is time for Aliette to retire. She only pouts for a moment before a massive yawn disrupts the expression. “I am rather tired,” she admits in response to Dean and Castiel’s raised eyebrows. Then she turns to Balthazar, her eyes wide and pleading. “Will you tell me a story before I go to sleep, Monsieur Dupont?”

Balthazar’s own eyes go equally wide, and he seems to have difficult speaking, an unusual state for him. “Of course,” he says softly. “I would be honoured, mademoiselle.” He looks at Dean and Castiel and waves his hand at them “Away, my friends. The young lady has made her preferences known, and you are no longer needed here.”

Castiel hesitates, clearly unwilling to leave Aliette, though she gives no sign of distress. Dean merely stoops to press a kiss to her brow and allow her to wrap her small arms around him. “À demain, Aliette,” he says. The bright grin he receives in reply settles warmly in his chest. 

“Go,” Balthazar repeats to Castiel. “It is not yet late, and you are young and in love.” He winks at Dean. “And you are in Paris! The most romantic city in the world.” He spreads his hands wide and looks down at Aliette. “Come, my dear. What kind of story would you like to hear?”

She throws a wave over her shoulder before taking Balthazar’s hand and allowing herself to be led upstairs. Dean watches them go, smiling softly, then turns to Castiel with a raised eyebrow. “Well, my lord? We are in Paris, after all.”

“We are,” Castiel agrees. He straightens the knot of his cravat, then offers Dean a deep bow. “Will you grant me the honour of your company for a moonlight stroll, Mr. Winchester?”

“I will, Lord Milton.” Dean takes Castiel’s offered arm, and they sail forth together.

The night air is warm, with a slight breeze rising from the Seine as they approach the river. There are other couples enjoying the fine weather, most of whom cast interested looks at Dean and Castiel as they pass but do not stop to chat, for which Dean is grateful. He is content with the comfortable silence they have fallen into, the feeling of his arm against Castiel’s, the lines of his jaw illuminated by the lanternlight. It feels much like other strolls they have taken at home in London, and yet not at all similar. Balthazar was right all along: there is simply something about Paris, something that lends an air of romance to even the most mundane activities.

Just past the battered but still beautiful cathedral of Notre-Dame, Castiel slows his steps and casts an unreadable look at Dean. He gently guides him towards a small courtyard, sheltered from the street by the soaring buildings on either side of it. Dean quirks an eyebrow at him but follows trustingly. There is a small fountain in the centre of the courtyard, trees just beginning to bud, and a stone bench tucked into the far corner.

Castiel stops in front of the fountain and turns to face Dean, a soft smile on his face. Still somewhat confused, Dean smiles back, assured that nothing is wrong. “What is it, Castiel?” he asks.

Slowly, gracefully, Castiel sinks to one knee.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and he presses one trembling hand to his mouth. His eyes lock onto Castiel’s, and in them he sees nothing but love. Love, in all its tender glory.

“Dean,” he begins. His name always sounds so precious, falling from Castiel’s lips. “I love you with every fibre of my being. Heart, body, mind, and soul. From the first night we met, I knew you were someone extraordinary, and I have only come to believe that more strongly with every minute I spend in your company.” He pauses, one sharp inhale the only indication he might be suffering from nervousness. “I wish to spend the rest of my days at your side, to cherish you and to comfort you, to see you smile and to hold you when you cry. To love you, and to be loved by you.” He smiles, then, and he is so beautiful, so dear, that Dean barely believes this is finally happening. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Dean says. As if there was ever any doubt of his answer. He wipes his cheek, startled to find it wet. “Yes, Castiel, I will.”

And then they are in each other’s arms, and Castiel is kissing him, and Dean feels as though his heart might burst from pure happiness. Castiel pulls back long enough to press a tender, heated kiss to the place where Dean’s jaw meets his neck, and he melts completely into the embrace. “I love you,” Castiel murmurs, trailing kisses across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. “More than I ever thought I could possibly love another.”

“I love you,” Dean replies, breathless. “Castiel, I never thought--”

Castiel cups his cheek and strokes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. “Never thought what, my love?”

“Never thought I might be this happy,” Dean confesses, voice low. “You, and this night, and this place--” he sweeps an arm out to indicate the courtyard they stand in, their own small enclosed universe-- “it all exceeds my wildest dreams.”

Castiel kisses him again, lingering. “Far better than dreams,” he murmurs. “This is real. And it is only the beginning.”

“Mmn.” Dean relaxes against him, enjoying the warmth of Castiel’s arm, the firmness of his chest, the wonderful security he radiates. “I look forward to what follows, but yet I have no wish for this moment to end.”

“Then let us enjoy it.” Castiel presses his cheek to Dean’s hair and tightens his embrace, and they stand like that, pressed so wonderfully together, until the dropping temperature finally forces them to turn their steps back towards Balthazar’s home.

They do not make love that night, but when they curl up together in their wide, warm bed, Dean lays his head on Castiel’s chest and lets the steady pounding of his heart lull him to sleep, never more assured of the love it radiates.

***

There is a new softness between them the next morning, a weight to their smiles and glances that settles warmly in Dean’s chest. Aliette is too blithely enthused about the prospect of another day exploring Paris to notice, but Balthazar gives them a knowing look across the breakfast table and pulls Castiel aside for a whispered exchange afterwards. It ends with them embracing, Balthazar beaming as he kisses Castiel on both cheeks and then reaches to pull Dean into his arms as well. Dean laughs and submits gladly to his exuberant congratulations.

The day passes quickly, and all too soon, they must pack their things for the journey back to London. Balthazar tries to persuade them to stay, but is placated by Castiel’s promise that they will return soon, as Aliette will surely wish to visit again before long. “And, of course,” he continues, “you will see us in London for the wedding.”

Balthazar brightens at that, and begins firing rapid questions at Dean about his plans for the day. Castiel rolls his eyes fondly from the other side of the room and helps Sidonie sort out the mess Aliette has made of her garments over the course of their short stay.

It rains as they say their goodbyes, but Balthazar stands outside with them, heedless of the effect the rain will have on his clothing. “It has been good to see you, my friend,” he says as he takes Castiel’s hand in both of his. “And to see you so happy.”

Castiel smiles and leans forward to embrace him. “We will see you soon, Balthazar. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Balthazar waves his thanks away and turns to Dean. “And you,” he says, reaching out to clasp Dean warmly by the shoulder. “You take care of my oldest friend, hmn?”

Dean nods, casting a fond glance at Castiel. “It will be my pleasure.”

Aliette pouts up at Balthazar. “I wish you were coming with us, monsieur.”

“Ah, you must not tempt me,” Balthazar replies, crouching down to her level. “Perhaps one day you will hear a knock at the door of your new home, and a card will be delivered, requesting the honour of tea with Miss Aliette Milton. And to your surprise, it will be my weary self standing at your door.”

She giggles at that, and after one last embrace, Balthazar rises back to his feet. “Well, my friends,” he says, eyes suspiciously bright, “we will not say goodbye. _Á bientot_.”

" _Á bientot_ ,” Dean echoes, Castiel a few beats behind. They each take one of Aliette’s hands and lead her towards the waiting carriage. Once they have settled, they lean out the window and wave enthusiastic goodbyes until Balthazar disappears from view.

Aliette is quiet for most of their journey, curling up against the window of the carriage and watching the scenery roll past. Castiel gives her a number of concerned glances, but Dean just shakes his head in reassurance. She will speak when she is ready, and they ought to be respectful of her need for quiet at this time. She is, after all, leaving behind most of what she has known her entire life. 

It isn’t until they’ve boarded the boat that she speaks in earnest. Sidonie has excused herself, looking faintly green, while Dean, Castiel, and Aliette stand at the rail and watch as the coast of France shrinks behind them.

“Will your other friends be as kind as Monsieur Dupont?” Aliette asks, looking up at Castiel. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, eyes wide and fearful. “Will they like me?”

“Of course they will,” Castiel replies gently, settling a hand on her shoulder. “No, more than that. They will love you, just as we do.”

He meets Dean’s eyes over her dark head and gives him a soft smile. “We are fortunate in our friends, and in our family,” he continues. “So many of them are waiting to meet you, to welcome you to England and to our lives.”

“Are there any other children?” Aliette inquires shyly. 

“Not yet,” Dean answers. “But my brother, Sam, and his wife Sarah may have a babe soon. They were married last year. And our dear friends Celeste and Gilda have mentioned they are thinking of starting a family soon as well.” He crouches down beside her and grins. “But for now, it will be just you. And that means you will have so many aunts and uncles and other new friends to spoil you, and you alone.”

She giggles at that, the nervousness easing from the set of her shoulders, then her face goes pensive. “Papa wanted a large family,” she says. “But after Maman died, it was just the two of us. I think I will like having so many others in my family.”

“I certainly hope you will.” Castiel bends down and picks her up, holding her close. “It is a fine thing, to be so surrounded by love.”

Dean smiles and moves closer so that his leg brushes against Castiel’s. “It is,” he agrees. “It is the most wondrous thing in the world.”

Aliette sighs happily and tucks her head firmly against Castiel’s shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to the top of her head and winds one arm around Castiel’s waist, heart overflowing with love for both of them. 

Soon, they will introduce Aliette to all their numerous friends and relations. Soon, she will be entrenched in their lives so firmly that they will marvel that they ever existed without her. Soon, Dean and Castiel will stand in front of those same friends and relations and make their vows to one another.

But for now, it is just the three of them, and it is more than enough for Dean. The past is behind them, though they carry it with them always, and a bright future lies ahead.


End file.
